


Anchor Point

by anarmydoctor



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 10:52:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5866576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarmydoctor/pseuds/anarmydoctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce looks at Clint, just to get lost in the precise, methodical, fluid cycle of his motions. The archer is sweating now. His hair looks darker, and the t-shirt he’s wearing is damp and clings to the muscles of his back. The veins in his arms are more prominent than usual, cording the muscles, tracing a cartography of tension, work and strength. It’s a gorgeous view, that in another time, would have inspired bronze sculptures and epic poetry. But Bruce is not a sculptor nor a poet, so he goes back to his formulas, cheeks pink and heart pumping fast and heavy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anchor Point

  


Most of Bruce's nights are restless nights.

When he's not working late at the lab with Tony (who never sleeps, Bruce is sure), he has difficulty sleeping, and even when he sleeps, his mind never finds peace. His nights always bring nightmares and very vivid dreams. The worst part, the _unfair_ part, is that those are not even his dreams. Because, and this is the thing, Bruce dreams the Other guy’s dreams.

Bruce knows those are not his own dreams, because they replay things that happened when the Other guy was out, and Bruce had no memory of those events until he sees them, replayed, dreamed, through Hulk’s point of view. It’s a distorting, strange perspective, not just because, from Hulk’s massive height, everything looks smaller, or because, as it often happens in dreams, things tend to look a bit off. It’s because, as Bruce has come to understand, those dreams are the only way the Other guy has to process everything that he experiences when he's out there, when Bruce disappears and the creature, green and angry and unstoppable, takes control.

People usually assume that the Hulk is all about anger, about feral and unleashed rage. But it's not just that. When the Other guy emerges, it's always as a response to some kind of sensory overload, and that feeling never fades. Quite the contrary. The Hulk, out there, exposed like a nerve, in a world that suddenly feels even smaller, painfully constricting and too damn loud, is assaulted by the intense overstimulation of all his senses at once. Bruce has been trying to find the scientific reasoning behind these responses, since he knows that if he could find the way to stop this abnormal increase in sensitivity, he could control the Hulk. But there’s not much he can do. He knows that hyperesthesia and, in general, sensory processing disorders, are correlated to anxious patterns, and that is something he’s been working on for more than a decade now. He has read everything that has been published about it, but he has also experienced it because Hulk’s dreams have shown him how it is, how much it hurts.

In those dreams, the sky is too low and the air is too heavy; it feels heavy in Hulk’s lungs, it feels heavy against his skin, pressing insistently, a presence impossible to ignore. And the wind brings no relief; it brings only violence, only noise and distress. Every sign his mind registers feels hostile: the sound of alarms and explosions, the bitter smell of smoke and blood, and the deafening pulse of life vibrating all around him, _through_ him, which makes Hulk want nothing more but to smash the world into silence. Which makes Bruce wake up out of breath, sweating, screaming, sometimes crying, and exhausted, drained, his body and mind hurting as if they had been stretched to their very limits.

Thankfully, it’s not always like this. There are nights when the Other guy has placid dreams, when he dreams of places and lands he clearly misses. When Bruce lived in India, in Brazil, in Guatemala, and he avoided population centers, and there was no asphalt, no skyscrapers, no traffic. No labs. No prosecutions. No nightmares. And in the prodigious rainforests of the Amazon, where life was a fluid stream of colors, breathing trees and flapping wings, there the Hulk could get lost, green and happy and tiny among the greener, colossal architecture of the wildest jungle. Because, despite everything, the monster, the loss, the deaths and the exile, there were also times to treasure, when life flowed as peaceful and generous as the Dulce river of Izabal. Bruce understands. He often misses those places and those times too, and he finds himself craving those dreams in which the ruins of Tikal have taken the place of Manhattan, and where the air brings the smell of warm tamales; those dreams where the sky is pink and orange and surreal, as the skies of Uttarakhand were.

Bruce tends to tell himself and the others, that there’s nothing good the Other guy brings to his life, but truthfully those dreams that are full of nostalgia are the exception.

//

  


Tonight, the dream starts in a battlefield, as it usually does. It's New York. Bruce can tell, even when the buildings are just blocks of stone that go high up in the sky. Even when the sky is red and tastes metallic. There are insects in the sky, and Bruce feels sand in his teeth, in the Other guy’s teeth, gritty and irritating. The rest of the dream is just a blur of colors and movement. Everything is moving too fast and changes the air around Hulk's head, under his skin, too abruptly and unpredictably. There's a hole up in the sky, and there's a high-pitched, scratchy noise coming from above. And there's no way, no matter how far away Hulk leaps or how heavy his feet hit the ground, to stop the noise, there's no way to get the world to stop moving, shaking, rubbing insistently against Hulk’s senses. Those small creatures (not the insects, Bruce notes, but kinder, softer figures, tiny humans all around Hulk) are moving in obsessive patterns, some of them on the ground, others at the level of his eyes, as they pass by buzzing, shouting, fighting. It's nothing new, Bruce knows this, the Other guy knows this, but it's still, too much, and there’s no way to get used to the world as it has become; it's unbearable and extenuating, and it's getting Hulk to the edge of how much he can take. And that’s not good, that’s dangerous, that’s worse than a hole in the sky, and Bruce is trying to wake up, because it's hurting him, sand between his teeth, insects all over him, crawling inside his nerves, he’s trembling and shaking and he can’t open his eyes, he can’t breathe, he’s suffocating in sand and pain and the world _won’t shut up_. Then the Hulk turns, already a fist of green tempest and volatile energy, and

he pauses.

He has seen something. No, someone.

There is, all of sudden, clear focus. So clear that Bruce can recognize Clint instantly, up on the roof of a building (not just a mass of stone but an actual building), as he always is when there’s a battle, and he's standing there, immobile. In that world of whirling chaos, in that tangle of convulsing movements, bright colors and abrupt noises, the archer is completely, comfortingly still.

Hulk has gone still too, and his breathing has calmed.

So has Bruce’s. The sand, the insects, the pain, all are suddenly gone. The world is gradually decelerating, and the Other guy has unclenched his hands. He is looking at the archer, all stillness, armed bow, fixed stance and focused gaze. For the first time in years and years of dreams, there is silence. And when all the weight of Hulk’s attention centers there, in that anchor point that is Clint Barton on the roof of a building, the world becomes completely still. The sudden stop makes Bruce’s head jerk forward just a little, off his pillow, and it’s that inertial movement what finally wakes him up.

He’s flushed, even if his heart is beating steadily.

There’s something in him, thrumming at the edges of his consciousness, that senses that what just happened was somehow important. But once he’s fully awake, the feeling dissipates, as if it was just a lingering echo of the dream.

And, after all, dreams are just dreams.

//

  


Most of Bruce's mornings are hell.

It’s understandable, since he barely sleeps and most of his dreams are exhausting. But what really makes his mornings hell is the fact that, invariably, every morning, when he goes to get his much needed 7 a.m. coffee from the communal kitchen in the Tower, Clint is there. Bruce has tried getting there slightly earlier or later, but Clint is always there, all by himself. And that is why Bruce’s mornings are hell.

What has Bruce done to deserve this hell every morning is a question he doesn’t want to think too much about. Because he doesn’t want to think too much about how soft and warm Clint looks every morning, propped up against the kitchen counter with a bowl of colorful, unhealthy cereal in his hands, or about how his hair is all ruffled, and his eyelids are heavy, as if his long, thick eyelashes weigh too much. Nor does Bruce want to think about the way Clint’s pajama pants cling low on his hips, and how his t-shirt is softly wrinkled and so worn that the collar is all loose, exposing the hollow of his collarbone and where a vein presses gently against the skin, blood pumping tiny and tender with each heartbeat.

It’s the only time during the day in which Bruce and Clint are alone in the same space, and Bruce hates it, because it’s too early, he’s too grumpy, he’s too tired, and they _never_ talk. Clint always seems too sleepy to be able to engage in any kind of human interaction, and it’s not like Bruce can actually think of anything interesting to say. So he just grunts something vaguely resembling a good morning, to which Clint grunts back, mouth full of milk and cereal, and Bruce proceeds to make coffee, and tries not to stare too much at that cowlick that is sticking up temptingly on the top of Clint’s head.

Every damn morning.

At least the coffee is good. Who would have thought they would have good coffee in hell.

//

  


As soon as the dream starts, Bruce knows it is Hulk’s again. It’s unusual to have the Other guy dreaming two nights consecutively, especially when there have been no incidents recently, but it’s not the first time this has happened.

A battlefield again, but Hulk’s focus is not on the ground or the sky. Hulk is looking at his green, massive palm, open and facing the sky. And on Hulk’s palm, the archer is asleep.

The Other guy’s dreams have always been rooted in memories, but Bruce doubts that Clint Barton sleeping on Hulk’s palm has actually ever happened. Bruce would never have forgotten that.

Would he? Anyway, wouldn’t Clint have said something?

The dream is peaceful, almost static in its quietness, but it’s so new and disconcerting that Bruce can feel the pull of his consciousness.

The dream is just that, the archer almost comically tiny on Hulk’s palm. He’s on his side, knees flexed against his chest, sound asleep.

Hulk doesn’t move, doesn’t want to move. And Bruce, Bruce doesn’t want to wake up.

The archer does wake up then, slowly and placidly. He sits on Hulk’s palm, with his legs crossed, a tiny fist gently rubbing sleepy eyes. He starts stretching his arms wide, revealing wings, brown and plush and strong. Bruce is sure _that_ has never happened.

They are beautiful.

The archer blinks slowly, and looks up at Hulk.

Bruce wakes up.

//

  


That day he decides he’s not ready for the morning hell that a visit to the kitchen would bring, so he skips coffee and goes directly to the lab. He’s actually feeling good, fresh and well rested anyway, which is a new sensation for him. He could get used to this.

It’s past lunchtime when Bruce walks into the communal lounge and finds Natasha explaining, with precise terms and unequivocal gestures, how the female orgasm works. She's sitting on the left armrest of the main couch, and the rest of the avengers are listening to her in reverent silence. Bruce can't imagine how they got to that subject, but he would bet that the ultimate goal of the lecture is to discover how many shades of red Steve's face can achieve.

As endearing as Steve’s face may be at that moment, Bruce’s attention switches to Clint’s face out of habit. He instantly regrets it.

Clint is sprawled on the couch, body relaxed and face open, and he is looking at Natasha with a knowing smile. As if he knows perfectly well how a female orgasm works, as if he knows perfectly well how _Natasha’s_ orgasm works. Bruce hates it. Hates that smile and what he’s reading into it, hates how everything seems to click suddenly into place, hates the pang of disappointment gripping tight in his chest. He hates himself for that, and he hates the female orgasm, he hates Clint, Natasha, and the whole spectrum of the color red. He hates the world, and everything that there is in it, and he can feel, still numb and diffuse, a green pulse growing inside him. He knows nothing is going to happen. He’s in control, and there’s no way that he’s going to turn, right there and then, literally green with envy.

He takes a deep breath, and focuses on the secret pleasure of feeling the Hulk like that, knocking on a door Bruce is not going to open. It works, a bit. At least, it makes him feel less miserable, less like a teenager with a hopeless crush on one of his teammates. And more like a scientist with a powerful weapon inside him ...and a hopeless crush on one of his teammates.

//

  


Bruce is dreaming, and he knows that this time, it’s his dream.

He can see his own hands, and those are definitely his hands, small and calloused, and they are shaking a little.

Shaking because, and this is important, Bruce is doing everything he can not to touch Clint's hair. His hands are hovering over Clint's head, who is, and this is important too, on his knees, in front of him, his face just mere inches from Bruce's crotch.

There’s a low rumble in Bruce’s chest, and that’s the only soundtrack the dream provides. Clint looks up at him, and Bruce groans out loud, not in the dream, but in his bed. Clint’s mouth is curving into a knowing smile, the one Bruce hated just yesterday and loves in this instant more than he loves science. There’s something predatory about that smile, that matches the clear, sharp intensity in his eyes. Clint is looking up at him from under dark eyelashes, and he’s on his knees in front of him and _god_ he’s mouthing Bruce’s cock through his pants, where it’s straining, hard and heavy and hurting against the fabric. He can feel, so vividly, the pressure of Clint’s lips, the titillating hint of teeth, the mess of drool already permeating the front of his pants, and he has never wanted like this before, with a hunger and urgency that threatens to consume him alive. He’s desperate for more friction, and the rumble grows, because Clint has taken Bruce’s cock in his mouth and it’s. Just. Heaven. ~~~~

It seems like this is not an extraordinary event in the dream, as if this was something Bruce and Clint are used to doing. As if this were a place they often visited. It’s the familiarity, all the worn, comfortable intimacy of it that is making Bruce’s chest feel tight with a need that has nothing to do with desire, and hurts as bright and primordial as the sun.

Bruce is clinging to the dream, desperately trying not to wake up, and his hands, shaking, are searching for leverage too, and they move to rest on Clint’s head, which is moving faster now, Clint’s mouth taking him deeper to the root, firm tongue pressing all the right places in all the dirtiest, sweetest ways, and he can feel his body tensing up, just like that and he’s going to come and it’s going to be so glorious there’re actual tears in his eyes, and ugh-like-ke-tHAt, just-a-bit _more_ the rrrumble in his chest is sO-oh LOUd-n-noW it’s-

It’s. _Fuck_. It’s his alarm clock going off.  

Bruce wakes up. He’s painfully hard and his pants are sticky with precum.

There is no coffee in the world good enough to make up for the hell that morning is going to be.  

//

  


Tony is pure energy. Literally, his heart is a blue source of unlimited energy, and the man himself is relentless and unstoppable. Which is a good thing when you have all the resources and the world changing ideas that Tony has, but not that good when you are his lab partner. Because sometimes, it’s too much, and Bruce feels like he’s sucked into a loop of centrifugal energy that has his head spinning and it dangerously affects his ability to discuss or research (or even prevent explosions).

And that’s the reason why that afternoon Bruce is trying to hide from Tony for a few hours. He's carrying a notebook, since he suspects that all electronic devices in the Tower have some internal tracking system. He ends up in the shooting range, just because it seems like the last place Tony would go looking for him. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Clint Barton is there, alone, shooting arrow after arrow, with his perfect aim and with his training gear wrapping his body in the most exquisite way.

He sits on a bench that turns out to be much more comfortable than it looks, and opens his notebook. The swooshing sound of the arrows piercing the air, the distant and satisfying thud when they hit the mobile targets, soon have Bruce transfixed, deeply focused and relaxed.

Time passes by. Bruce inevitably looks at Clint, just to get lost in the precise, methodical, fluid cycle of his motions. The archer is sweating now. His hair looks darker, and the t-shirt he’s wearing is damp and clings to the muscles of his back. The veins in his arms are more prominent than usual, cording the muscles, tracing a cartography of tension, work and strength. It’s a gorgeous view, that in another time, would have inspired bronze sculptures and epic poetry. But Bruce is not a sculptor nor a poet, so he goes back to his formulas, cheeks pink and heart pumping fast and heavy.

After a while, he closes his eyes, because the entrancing rhythm of the practice, and the solid presence of Clint, pure focus and stillness in the background, has sparked a memory, a feeling of déjà vu that hits him unexpectedly.

An open window, narrow but tall. Bruce is sitting on the window sill, and the first light of a new day, of a new life, bathing the house, warming Bruce’s face. There’s a bird of wide wingspan and elegant neck suspended in the sky, and it feels like time is suspended too, and everything is silent, a smooth surface of water that nothing can disturb. The smell of the sea permeates the air. The first days of summer, then. The first days of happiness or at least the promise of it. That instance of light, immense and blue, remains untouched in Bruce’s mind, bright and hopeful, despite everything that came after.

Bruce sighs, suddenly feeling extremely small and vulnerable. The memory was so deeply buried that for a second he doubts it was real, that it was just a projection of that dream where Hulk saw Clint on the top of a building and the world came to a standstill. With his eyes closed, Bruce considers it, but then shakes his head. He knows the memory is real. But maybe it was the dream that made him remember, linking that reminiscence with the present.

“Hey. You ok?”

Bruce opens his eyes and Clint is right there, in all his Olympic glory.

“Y-yes. You?” A silly question probably, but Bruce is never good at this, whether it’s 7 a.m. before coffee or - (what time is now?) There’s a giant clock on the opposite wall, and it’s ticking just past eight, and Bruce can’t believe he’s sat there for more than three hours.

“I’m doing alright. It always feels nice to have the range all for myself. Or, you know,” Clint makes a vague gesture: “...to have good company.”

Bruce doesn’t have anything to say to that. Or, actually, he has, but he can’t, he shouldn’t, he’d _never_. How could he tell Clint that he’s been dreaming of spending time with him for as long as he can remember; that he has been dreaming of stolen time, stolen glances, stolen kisses, since a day he remembers perfectly ( _of course_ he remembers: Clint was a mask of grief and guilt and Bruce wanted nothing more than to grab him and tell him I know, I know you, let me show how much it hurts, to survive the aftermath, how much it hurts to have heart, because I know, I know, see, I’m here, look at me. Please look at me. Please, see me). How could he tell Clint he has been dreaming of Clint looking at him. How could he tell him he’s dreaming dreams that leave him hard and wanting. How could he tell Clint that even the Other guy is dreaming about him now, and that those dreams leave Bruce aching in a completely different way, like his heart is too big for his chest, as if he were carrying Hulk’s heart, beating too fast, too strong, too young, because Hulk has the colossal heart of a child, and if love is for children, how much love can fit in an oversized heart, and how could Bruce tell Clint how much it hurts to contain all of this inside.

Bruce is used to cage up what should never be seen, so for him it’s easy to refrain from saying things that should remain unsaid. So he says nothing. He waits. If Clint is just being polite, he will soon be heading back to his training. If not...

Clint tilts his head and looks at Bruce’s notebook, open on his lap. He’s not heading back to his training.

“So... what are you working on?”

Bruce jumps, panicking as he scrambles to hide his notes, as if they contained his thoughts; as if things like “Bruce Barton” or “Clint Banner” were written, inside glittery hearts, all over the pages. Obviously it's just numbers and formulas. Clint doesn’t need to know (and there is no way he could know) that the formulas covering the last two pages form an algorithmic abstraction that describes the perfect curve of Clint’s ass. So Bruce decides to explain to Clint, instead, in simple terms, a bit of what he’s been working on lately with Tony, which is a new approach to the effects of gamma radiation and its possible connections with high levels of increased D2 receptor in the striatum, which is also usually found in patients with sensory over-responsivity. Clint is looking at him with big eyes, and a smile that is part defeat and part tenderness. When he speaks again, he sounds touched.

“I knew I wouldn't understand a thing. But thanks for trying. So... do you still try to find a way to fight it?”

“Sorry?”

“A way to make... the Other guy disappear or don’t know, for him to be happy inside forever. I don’t know how that works.” Clint smiles a nervous smile, and fidgets a little, like he’s aware that he may be oversimplifying things, that he may be offending Bruce.

Bruce feels like he’s melting, melting in a blue sky of pleasant, easy conversations. He’s secretly proud of himself when his voice doesn’t break as he answers.

“That’s a nice thing to say. And... yeah, I don’t think I want him to disappear. I think I would feel... hollow, you know? And I honestly fear what might take his place.” Bruce is revealing more than he intended to, but Clint’s smile widens, and there’s something incredibly warm and reassuring in his eyes, so he keeps going. “So, I guess that’s right. The goal is to find a way to keep Hulk in my system, but finding a space for him that makes him feel comfortable, and yes, happy. At home. If that makes sense.” 

Clint is looking at Bruce with such an intense focus he can feel himself blushing, and his heart again feels too big, too breakable, too loud to his own ears.

One side of Clint’s mouth quirks up, and Bruce smiles too. They don’t say anything else, and it suddenly feels like they are so close, closer than they have ever been. And then, something extraordinary happens, something that Bruce has never seen before.

Clint blushes.

It’s exactly twelve minutes past eight when Bruce learns that when Clint blushes, his ears turn bright red.

//

  


There's a bird on Hulk's palm.

It has a brown head and broad, rounded wings, the upper part of which are mottled and greyer towards the edges. Its chest and belly are pale, and its tail is long and yellowish. It’s small, although everything appears small on Hulk’s palm. But it also looks sturdy, a compact bullet of precise energy. It stares at Hulk with calm curiosity.

Powerful as it seems, it feels extremely delicate too, and Bruce can feel Hulk is holding his breath, trying to be exceptionally careful with such a treasurable creature, like the bones of a bird may be the most fragile thing a monster could imagine.

The bird doesn’t move, doesn’t fly. In fact, it’s falling asleep. Bruce has never seen a bird sleep, and he wonders if the Other guy has. He knows, amongst the collection of seemingly random and useless things he has learnt during his research and travels, that birds only sleep if they feel completely safe, out of reach from any doubt, from any danger.

The bird has closed its eyes, its brown head tilted a little. Its chest puffs out and in so softly, so silently. So trusting.

It feels so intimate it’s devastating.

//

  


It's five in the morning when Bruce decides to go to the kitchen for some coffee. He has been awake for more than an hour, and it doesn’t look like he will be able to get any more sleep. Not after that dream, not after the feeling that something has changed, that something that used to be caged inside him is no longer trapped, although not gone either.

Against all logic, that realization makes him neither uneasy nor nervous. He feels fine. He feels... safe, and ready, even if he doesn’t know what he’s ready for.

Bruce finds Clint in the kitchen. He’s looking through the huge windows, observing the city that is still covered with the heavy patina of the night sky. He looks pensive, but not troubled.

Bruce decides to say good morning this time, loud and clear, but Clint speaks first.

“I had the weirdest dream.” His voice sounds ragged, and he is speaking slowly, like he is carefully measuring every word. “I dreamt I was a bird.”

He turns to face Bruce and takes a few steps towards him. Bruce sees it in him - the bird from the dream: the tender tilt of the head, the elastic heaviness in his shoulders, his fingers caressing the air, as if Clint was still feeling feathered, small and weightless. He continues, his voice almost a whisper now.

“...and I” Clint seems to have lost his train of thought for a moment, his eyes sharper and bluer than ever, following Bruce’s hands that Bruce hadn’t realized he was clenching. When he notices Clint’s eyes on them, he stops immediately. Clint takes another step closer and holds Bruce’s right hand, palm up.

Clint’s thumb starts tracing soft circles over the center of Bruce’s palm, where the skin is softer and younger, and it makes Bruce’s entire body tingle with want. It makes a rainforest bloom in his chest, one that would be big enough and green enough for Hulk to be happy and lost in for days.

“ ...I felt _safe_.” Clint utters the last word as if it felt strange on his tongue, too unused, too foreign.

Bruce looks at him. There are so many things he'd like to say to that and all of them seem equally important. For example, that Clint’s eyes have the colors of the waters of Recife in Pernambuco. That his touch right now, rough and earthy and gentle on Bruce’s right palm, feels like the first time Bruce rested his hands on the roots of an Ungurahui tree. That there's a constellation that wears an archer's name, and Bruce can name every star in it, because Bruce knows all kinds of useless things, but he'd rather unlearn Ascella, Arkab, Rukbat, every single name, and learn instead the patterns of freckles and scars that map Clint’s skin. That he has noticed that about one inch from the left corner of Clint’s mouth, right where a sweet dimple appears whenever he smirks, there’s a patch of skin that always looks slightly chafed, and Bruce spent a whole night researching what could possibly be the reason behind it, and that is how he learnt what an anchor point in archery is - the exact place where Clint pulls the bow string to, the exact point where his left hand rests, for less than a second, at the highest peak of tension and focus every time before he releases the arrow. That Bruce wants to kiss that patch of skin more than anything else he has wanted in his life.

There are too many things Bruce would like to say. But he just says two words. They come out breathy and faint, as a long-kept secret would be when revealed.

“Me too”

Apparently, it's the right thing to say, because Clint, still holding his hand, looks at Bruce, smiles bright and wide, and kisses him.

There’s a bird, uncaged and unbreakable, deep inside Bruce’s chest, and it’s beating its wings wide and strong, rising up, and up, and up.

//

  


Most of Bruce's nights are restless nights.

That hasn't changed. What has changed, and this is important, is that now in his bed there’s an archer that gives him good reasons for not getting too much sleep at night, and who makes him stay in bed all morning. There are telling lovebites on his neck and on his thighs, because who would have imagined, Clint Barton is a biter. Bruce loves to trace them with his fingers over and over, because, who would have imagined, Bruce Banner loves every mark Clint leaves on his skin.

Bruce still dreams, and the Other guy still dreams, but now, they dream together.

That means less nightmares, less exhausting dreams, and that some nights a golden jaguar walks into Bruce’s room, which is suddenly a creaky attic with views to the Bay of Bengal, or with views to the Caxiuanã forest that happens to surround the Guggenheim museum.

It means, essentially, that the world can fit, sometimes, somehow, enough space for the both of them together.

 //

  


Bruce’s mornings are _brilliant_.

Bruce opens his eyes. It’s 10 a.m. He has dozed off again after the last orgasm, the one that made him scream so loud his throat is still sore.

Thinking of sore throats, he looks at Clint whose head is buried in the pillow and whose body is sprawled luxuriously on top of the covers, like that golden jaguar that sometimes wanders into Bruce’s room. Bruce turns on his side, because his cock is starting to tent the sheets, and the movement disturbs Clint’s sleep, who groans into the pillow. Bruce wants to keep him awake, for lustful, egoistical reasons.

“You know, Clint. I'm surprised. I thought you were a morning person.”

Clint’s hoarse voice (and just the sound of it is making Bruce’s body thrum with need) is muffled by the pillow.

“...I don't follow.”  
  
“I mean, you were always already in the kitchen, when I went for coffee at fucking seven in the morning”

Now Clint turns his head a little, just enough to open a greyish eye (they are always greyer in the morning, Bruce has come to learn) to look at him. Bruce can see the round eye and the corner of a smirk.

“Oh, but that was just because I wanted to be around you. It was the only time when I had the chance to be alone with you.”

He says it as if it was obvious, and Bruce blushes, which is ridiculous after everything they have done, after where Clint’s mouth has been, after what Bruce has whispered heavily in Clint’s ear, after all they have said and done to each other, he still blushes, and he can’t believe what he has just heard.

“But, Clint... you never talked.”

“Your point being...?” Now Clint lifts his head off the pillow. There’s a teasing smugness in his voice that works for Bruce even when Clint’s hair is sticking in different directions, and he has pillow marks on the left side of his face. “I mean, I got you, after all.”

Bruce can see now the sparks of gold in Clint’s eyes, and that his lips are still slightly swollen. He smiles, and leans over to kiss him. Clint welcomes him eagerly, and when their mouths part, Bruce is breathing heavily, and there’s no trace of grey in Clint’s eyes. Instead, Clint’s eyes are blue and green, not unlike the sea waters that bathe Pernambuco. They are like nothing Bruce has ever seen, has ever dreamed.

“Yes, you got me.” Bruce sighs and places a kiss close to the left corner of Clint’s mouth, right on that bruised, sacred point.  
  
“Good. Now go back to sleep.”

Bruce does. Out of reach from any doubt, from any danger.

****

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to Miurt for her amazing beta work!
> 
> If you liked this fic, and if you like Hawkeye, Banner, Jeremy Renner and other pretty things, go and follow me on tumblr: anarcheress.tumblr.com :)
> 
> This fic has been translated into Chinese by the lovely Christywalks. You can read it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6674299


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